Kind of Tragic
by NoPerfectCircle
Summary: Surrender: To relinquish possession or control of to another because of demand or compulsion. Jack&Gwen. One shot.


**Author's note: **I don't think i have to precise that if you don't like the pairing, you shouldn't be reading this, ok? Also, this doesn't have a precise timeline, though I guess, because of events in Torchwood, season 2. I'd say somewhere in season 1.  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own Torchwood. Russell T. Davies does and the BBC, and probably other people that I don't know of.

**Summary: **Surrender. _To relinquish possession or control of to another because of demand or compulsion._

Reviews are always lovely :)

**KIND OF TRAGIC**

It happens one night. One random night.

She fights with her boyfriend.  
You see her on the phone.  
Her features tense. Her expression changes. You feel it like it was you on that phone.

You offer what you always have in supplies. Comfort. A nice chat. Something to make her hold on. Something to make the pain go away.

Nothing more.

It wasn't supposed to happen. You built everything so it didn't happen.

She's pressed against you. You feel her heart beat fast, her head moving up from your shoulder to your neck. She breathes against your skin, you shiver. It was just a hug.

Nothing more.

She smells like vanilla. The room is filled with vanilla. It invades every corner of every spot. Her hand lingers on your arm. She's soft and tender.

Her eyes look into yours.

It hasn't begun, yet you know it's over.

Everything that you forbade yourself to do; it's collapsing in that instant.

She moves her way to your clothes. She takes them all off. You close your eyes. Your jaw clenches. It shouldn't happen. But you keep your eyes closed and you think...

For a minute, you think that maybe, just maybe, she's all yours.

You reply to her touch and you slowly take her to your bed. Not the best place, but it doesn't matter right now. If you don't do this now, you might break.

It's a surrender that gets into every part of your being.

Surrender. _To relinquish possession or control of to another because of demand or compulsion._

You've known many women. Many men. Even aliens. She's not the most experienced. She's not the most tender, not the most passionate. She's not the best by far.

But she's the most dangerous.

The passion in her eyes –this passion you've seen others looking at you with, this passion for you that you cannot comprehend- it's there. It's there but something else is too.

It's everywhere. In the way she curves her hips against yours, in the way she brushes your arms with her fingers, the way she buries her head in your shoulder when she reaches her climax.

It's there in the way she rests her hand on your chest when you're done.

Care.

Affection.

It's not something you're used to. Something you're comfortable with. There are barriers. You need these barriers to get back. You cannot let her fall for you. Or maybe it's the reverse.

Maybe you can't let yourself fall for her.

You haven't in a hundred years. You cannot now.

You really cannot.

She's not asleep. You know it by the way her fingers tremble nervously on your chest. She wants to say something, wants to have a conversation lovers sometimes have after sex but you're not lovers. You're not even friends.

You're something else. Something that doesn't enter the quaint little categories of this world. And somehow, that scares you, because you've gotten used to those categories. You feel comfortable playing by them, with them. But she, she's really something else.

You kiss her head. And you want to hold her tighter, but you _can't_.

You let go of your grip around her waist.

She gets her hand off your chest and she turns sideways. She rests her hand under her head, probably thinking that she's never had better sex. That's what they always say after. She's no exception.

But there's still _this_.

_This_ that is too much.

You feel it. She knows it.

You hear her sigh. She might be thinking about _him_ now. Thinking that what she's done was wrong. Or worse, right. You can't bear the thought of her thinking it was right.

You want her to be normal. You _need_ her to be normal. To have a personal life, a happy life. You need her to be your anchored point in reality.

You can't let her drift from this.

You look sideways but not fully turning your head towards her. You don't want her to hear the crumpling of the sheet. Don't want her to think you're looking at her. Don't want her to think you care.

But you do.

You do so much it hurts in every breathe you take.

In the way you cry for her when she's hurt. The way you tremble when she's in danger. The way your heart is being ripped out when she realizes, little by little, that the life she lives, the life _you _draw her into won't bring her anything but deceptions and horror…

There's not much you can do.

Just one thing.

One little thing.

You get up.

"Want something to drink ?" you ask.

You turn to watch her and she raises her hand for a second. "Yeah, thanks."

She looks down again. All the shame, all the care, all the confusion, written in her eyes. She's never been good at lying. But you've had years of training.

You come back with her drink.

She takes it, trembling as your fingers meet again and drinks it. And soon enough, she falls asleep.

You find her clothes, spread out on the floor and put them back on her. During the few hours that separate you from dawn, you find some bottles of alcohol so when she'll wake up, feeling hungover, head hurting, you'll just have to pretend that she got pissed there.

And she won't remember. She'll forget. And she'll be normal again. Normal for you.

But when the time comes, when she wakes up, thinking that she got drunk and just slept there, you look in her eyes. And what she forgot, you didn't.

It's_you_ who's going to live with _this_.


End file.
